Number 7

I am wounded by the blade of separation, aching with longing beyond all measure. Breeze, what would it cost you to show me a moment's kindness? Pass through my beloved's street and carry the state of my heart, just as you heard it from me, tell the tale to that one who stole my heart. Retell to that darling one story of what I have been through, though my complaint about the pain of parting is long. Breeze, comfort of my soul, when you reach the place you know, do me this one favor too, if you can. Tell that idol of China and Khotan, that faithless beauty: for God's sake, show your lover a little care. The watchman of your absence plunders my patience every moment; I would claim justice for myself if union with you would defend me. You take lives, you steal hearts, then you seek separation from me; your nurse must have fed you on the milk of faithlessness. The complaints I hold against you, I bring them to you as well. But why speak, when the story of parting has no end? Longing for your bound locks, caught in the lure of your drunken eyes, even the devout ascetic takes up residence in the tavern. Everyone has a heart-stealer they hover around like a speck of dust; each person turns toward some direction, but Saadi's whole direction is you.